Hospital '11
May 16, 2012 14:40

I'm remembering things, feelings from my past. They haunt me, they hurt me. They overcome me with sadness, wash over all my wounds with a salty singe. Watching the clock and counting down the seconds - hospital time always and only happens in seconds - until dilaudid will be pushed into my blood with a syringe by a person I haven't met yet. Shift change can only mean two things: fear or relief. As I lay, body beaten and bruised, in my hospital cot, my mother snores beside me on a folded out chair which cannot accommodate her 5'2" frame. I remain hurt by her betrayal but equally hurt thinking of her watching her daughter suffer tremendously and needlessly, ceaselessly, now coming to a head in the hellish pseudo-reality that I assume makes her wonder the same things as me. Dilaudid has long been my stated favorite drug, but it's not a simple mistress. Drugs give and take a-fucking-way. Especially these - synthesized heroin for the injured and sick. My marijuana lays hidden in my poolhouse lest anyone discover it, yet I take this heroin every four hours. I think because you don't have to smoke it? RUSH. My neck is overcome with the recently refamiliarized feeling of paralysis, simply unable to move my head under the weight of the drug. Ahhhh... My pain melts under its weight for 1,200 individual seconds. Those were ok. Familiar. Soothing, even. Then it drops you. Right back into the beaten and bloodied tarhole from which your beaten ass was dragged into a fleeting euphoria. What happens for the rest of the seconds feels UNFAIR. No, cruel. I again think of childhood trauma. My life is exactly what my child self expected and most feared, although my childhood mind was not privy to information that would allow her to create such a dystopian future; she was not yet familiar with Ray Bradbury, plus an almost unfairly heavy pressure to set myself free from bondage. My child self existed in terror. My now self is supposed to get the fuck over it. My now self feels equally as defenseless and equally as abused, although nothing could truly match the early days. 1,800 seconds til my next dose. I recall the frailty of childhood as a tiny blonde girl beats on the windows from inside her small house, screaming and crying and trying to stop the violence against her family outside. This flashes on my hospital screen in colors that should really all just be blood red. Death insists.